I came to New York because I thought I could cook my way into a new life. I thought if I sharpened my knives enough, if I let the kitchen heat blister my hands, I could carve myself into someone unrecognizable from the girl I was. Howard restaurant...
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CHAPTER (...) TWO no one is your friend, at all.
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Morning did not so much arrive as it spilled into the room, a pale-gold whisper staining the walls, reminding Gianna, softly but firmly, that beginnings have a way of finding you whether you feel ready or not. She exhaled into the quiet, throwing back the covers in one impatient sweep, bare feet meeting the chill of the floor as though to ground her in this new city, this new life. The bathroom mirror caught her in its silvered frame, hair tumbling in soft rebellion before she subdued it into a halo braid, though a few wayward strands refused the discipline, curling like untamed ivy around her temples.
Her morning ritual unfolded with the deliberate intimacy of muscle memory: moisturizer smoothing into skin like a prayer for resilience, toner cooling her cheeks as though erasing the shadows of sleep, pomade sealing the faint bloom of health that no harsh kitchen light could strip away. Make-up was kept to the faintest whisper of color, just enough to be seen without inviting inspection, while chapstick left her lips with the sheen of fresh rain.
Clothing herself was quick, decisive: the white button-up crisp as untouched parchment, the black pencil skirt a line of quiet authority, the heels a subtle weapon clicking against the floorboards. A thin veil of perfume followed the glide of deodorant across her skin, a trace meant to linger only in passing, like a memory you can't quite place.
Her leather bag already hung from her shoulder, the strap worn enough to tell of other cities, other mornings. Outside, the street greeted her with the smell of exhaust and wet concrete; she raised an arm for a taxi, and soon she was swallowed into the city's bloodstream, buildings sliding past her window in steady procession until they blurred into anonymity.
When she arrived, she paid quickly, slipping into the back entrance as Howard had instructed, a quiet initiation. The kitchen greeted her like a stage before curtain call: stainless steel gleaming under fluorescent light, the air tinged with garlic and ambition, every surface polished within an inch of its life.
A voice, sharp and dripping in false sweetness, cut through the hum.
"Little bug? Lost, are we?" The woman's eyes narrowed with proprietary suspicion, as if Gianna had trespassed not merely on a kitchen, but on a small, vicious kingdom.
"Where's Howard?" Gianna's reply was plain, unadorned, the kind of simplicity that left no room for misinterpretation.
"He'll be arriving shortly. Why? Are you the new back waiter?" The condescension was lacquered onto each word, her gaze weighing Gianna like a crate of produce she'd already decided was bruised.
Then — salvation, in the form of a familiar voice, "Ah, there you are, Gigi."
Howard appeared, arms open and warm, drawing her into an embrace that smelled faintly of cedar and espresso. "Right, Simone," He said, over her shoulder, his tone laced with dry warning, "Let the girl breathe."
